poem

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when at Quarry Hill,
Not a leotard or pointe shoe sat on the sill,
The studios are silent, not a whisper or sound,
It’s a strange kind of feeling not usually found,
The students have broken up for the term,
We’ll see them next year, ready to learn,
Their twirling and laughter filling the class,
As they practice for exams they will surely pass,